The Big Four, Part 1:Black Gold
by wemakeitmorethanfiction
Summary: Rated UA, Rapunzel is not recovering from Eugene's death. Every day is a struggle in a losing battle. While searching for energy from her parents' misery, Pitch instead finds a woman with the potential to restore him to his previous power in days instead of centuries. But Earth hath no motivation like Rapunzel with nothing left to lose.
1. Chapter 1

The first edition of three, in an eventual Big Four collaboration.

Anti-ships all around. I won't spoil the story by saying anymore.

:)

**RATED UA FOR UNIVERSE ALTERATIONS.**

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**BLACK GOLD**

**.Epilogue.**

It was here, surrounded by pieces of herself that had abandoned her, that she _finally_ felt her heart bend. It hissed and spat acids, threatened to shatter completely by tracing webbed cracks in minuscule places, but it held. It was close, but by some miracle of God—the _only_ miracle that had happened—she could still feel her heart beating in his chest, even if _his _would not.

Eug . . . _He_ was dead. That was obvious by the palette of his skin and the way his cheekbones now made his face seem hollow as opposed to handsome. It was clear in the way he did not smile at her and did not push her (much shorter, no longer golden, _ugly_) hair out of her face. It was evident in the way his heart didn't march in time with hers and the way his skin was not _quite_ as warm.

And outside, there was probably another body. Down below her, much too far of a drop for anyone to survive without a tether—_a tether that was now on the floor, tying no one to her; truly _everything_ had abandoned her_—was a woman she'd thought loved her. Down below was a woman who had tried to replace two someone's who really did love her, a witch who had taken away someone who loved more than just the idea of the lost golden baby. Down below was . . . nothing.

It was then, watching rivers of dead hair circle around her, that she realized she couldn't actually just sit here forever. The sky was overcast and a lazy, dark cloud threatened to further soil the day with a horribly appropriate storm. A nervous titter from a creature who had watched an invisible film cover her eyes for the past half hour or so caught her attention.

Oh, that was right. He was here too. A whinny from below let her know he wasn't the only one waiting. The world would not wait for her, _had_ _not_ waited for her. And it had only just given her the bare minimum amount of time to gather her bearings before demanding action and results from her once more.

She looked out the window, where the thundercloud rolled threateningly.

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_But what was she supposed to do _now?

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He needed . . . he _needed_ . . .

. . . was lost and . . . abandoned and . . . and . . . where was he_ anyways_? . . . and where . . . oh . . . right, right, there it was . . .

A tiny little vial; all that was left was a tiny, minuscule little bottle of it. Of _him_. And he drank it and he drank until there wasn't any more left; until it burned his tongue and left a blazing trail through his bones. His core smoldered and inflated until the beaten, dented parts had been pushed into the dark—into the light, where it wouldn't touch him anywhere . . . where it would hurt_ so much_ that it lost itself and lost its way back to him. It festered until it was fully replenished, expanding to the point where his normally defined bones felt as though they were being smothered by his skin and surrounding muscles & tissue. Only then did the excess _exhale_, fleeing like so much blown dust and dissolving into nothing once more. He lay panting and half-retching and gasping on his back, staring blindly up a ceiling not meant to be seen and incomplete cages without creatures to hold them.

His very essence had threatened him so thoroughly he'd been driven to the brink of extinction; how delicious the precious little _heroes_ might find his latest near-death experience.

A throng of pain tickling his rib-cage informed him that he was not as undamaged as he had hoped he'd be. A far more impressive blossoming headache only brought the point home. With a silent cry, he sunk into the floor, lips spread unnaturally wide. His jaw might as well have been dislocated from how open his maw was. But the shadows kept his quiet agony a secret, as he trusted they would, whisking him away from a place that was no longer safe and into a world that _was_.

His vial was empty. He had to get _more_. But his mares were no longer listening to him, his cages were still painfully empty, and his energy reserves were dangerously low. He could not expend the resources necessary to tempt someone/thing into doing his dirty work for him. He would—dare he admit it—have to do this _himself_; on his own, sans any traitorous, almost-murderous steeds. Oh how those blasted fools would _laugh _at him if they were to see him; he, no more than a shadow falling as a feather does through dimensions, preparing to steal what he could not currently create. How _hilarious_ it must be, to ruin an individual so thoroughly that they cannot even spare the breath to scream their pains and frustrations.

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_How sad, then, that even if he did scream, there would be no one their to hear him._

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The queen glided from her chambers, quiet as the figurative ghost her baby had slowly become. She had been on the road to a promising recovery lately, or so her doctors said. The petite brunette had a knack for relapsing at the most inconvenient times. Her first week within the castle had been just slight of a catastrophe. At the peak of the celebration, Rapunzel had swooned and placed on bed rest for a week and a half. The town had unanimously agreed that the excitement had been too much for the poor, sickly child.

She knew better.

Grief was a strange thing, the queen mused. It held no cure but time, which also boasted no recovery, miraculous or otherwise. The queen herself was no stranger to mourning. It had been nearly nineteen years now, and the guilt had yet to dissolve. Rapunzel's physical presence only made things worse.

It wasn't that she didn't adore her daughter. During her peaks, she was actually quite witty. She was the spitting image of her mother, with her father's deeply-rooted humor, if she was in a special mood. Her kindness and consideration was fathomless. She was a lovely asset to the house, ill or not. It was simply that the queen blamed herself for her daughter's grief. If she had only locked the window that night, none of this would have—.

She stopped herself, lifting her chin a fraction. Her husband and she had long since abandoned that line of useless thought. What had happened was over. It was too late to change the past. There was no use sniffling over it any longer. Rapunzel was home and she was safe. Whether or not all of her daughter had come home intact was up for considerable debate; somewhere along the line, she'd left her heart in a tower in the middle of the forest, with a body she wouldn't speak of, and a man who couldn't speak for her anymore. Unlike most, the Queen had received the full story.

_A thief,_ she said, glancing at a portrait of her late father. _Of all the decent human beings in the world, she fell for the ill-fated thief. How unfortunate._

It hurt too much to think about it anymore. Rapunzel _was_ healing. Rapunzel_ would_ heal, with more time. They just needed more _time_.

She let her knuckles rap thrice on the wooden door with the gilded sun mounted in the center. It split in half as the doors parted, an as-of-late familiar man smiling grimly at his queen.

Her answering smile was just as politely dispassionate.

A pair of once-bright, rarely-alive pupils gilded with emeralds makes its rounds across the wall and to where her mother lay. The woman who sired her smiles with as much warmth as she can manage to force onto her face. The queen, still smiling, internally compares it to grinning into a pool of water, for all the response she gets.

_At least her reflection would smile back at her._

The warmth melts from her place, to be replaced by the clammy intrusion that is her regular dose of worry and fear. She lets her composure fall away as she drifts to her daughter's bedside, the back of her hand pressing to a baby-soft forehead. Everything about her grown baby is too soft. Her heart was too soft, and look where it got her. She cannot help but resent the man for whom this heartache is to blame, even if he is—_was_—the man she loved.

"How does she fair?" The queen spoke aloud. And Rapunzel doesn't resent the fact it wasn't she who was directly asked. She is in no condition to answer anyways.

The doctor—a man named Allan—allows the muscles supporting his face to relax with a sigh. "She is better."

It is something.

"Her fever broke last night," he says, "and has not returned. It might do her some good to get her out and about. An ill left in the sheets will leave its victims in peace."

Rapunzel's lips actually quirk a little at that. She can't help it; it was a little funny and admittedly clever. She's never stopped loving clever things. She_ misses _clever, funny things. She misses the person who was clever and funny and so many more things—but she stops herself before she can march down that road again and smiles indulgently at the queen, as though she is the reason the fog has thinned (if only for a moment). Her reward is a winning, dainty grin.

"How about it, love," she coos, as though Rapunzel were still the baby she remembers. Here, wrapped in blankets and nestled into her hip, it is not so hard to imagine. She tucks a piece of her bangs—which are getting much too long, and need a trim—away from her forehead. "Care to circle the hedges with me?"

Rapunzel would like to say many things in response to that. But all of the things she'd like to say—all of the_ true_ things—any of them would be a terrible hurt to her mother's heart. A mother whose effort is so far beyond what the king has managed, in spite of his noble attempts. So instead of telling the truth, she says, "Sure."

And that is that.

Before she can say another word—not that she is willing to say anything else—her mother is calling in maids. The doctor is leaving and she the sheets are whisked away practically from under her. The remains of the fever are being scrubbed from her pores, her short, feisty hair (that she refuses for anyone to touch) is being combed, and there's lightweight, dainty clothes being tossed over her body. The queen waits outside through all of it. Rapunzel only notices her absence when she walks outside to find her waiting with an elegant smile and a chivalrous elbowed extended her way. The lost & found princess takes it without incident and beings walking. The queen chats in her ear about things that are unimportant to her. She speaks for the sake of hearing something other than the breeze and the wildlife. She speaks to fill the void. And Rapunzel can't help but appreciate it as her hand falls to the crook in her mother's elbow, squeezing once. The queen's hand falls over hers as well, though she continues on as if nothing has changed. Somehow, that in itself is a tender and still very much appreciated gesture.

Several gardeners have noticed their presence and wave. Rapunzel smiles weakly and the queen makes up for her dispassion with a full-fledged grin. It's hard to notice the pale princess with her mother beside her glowing like that.

"Sit," the queen insists, placing Rapunzel gently on a stone bench. "Let's not overwork you; it's too cold out. Let me get you a morsel before we go on, yes?"

Rapunzel nods. The queen is careful to pretend she hardly noticed and trots off, attracting the attention as she intended and leaving her daughter behind to overlook the balcony.

It's not really a balcony, she muses. Stairs to her left lead to the city, connected to the town. It seems as though everything is chained together here. Rapunzel hasn't yet managed to link herself with anything. She's yet to find a way to unhook herself from her previous connections. But she's hopeful everything will work out.

It's not as though she has another proposition anyways.

The queen was right in saying that it's far too chilly today. Rapunzel is convinced that if she were not adorned in as thick linens as the ones she wore presently, she would have frozen by now. Her ankles continue to catch the breeze, as do her neck. She lets her shoes slip off beneath her warm little dress, tucking them beneath her thighs. Her toes flexed and wiggled. Shoes; not something she'd really gotten used to yet. She let her hand fall to the back of her neck, taking a deep breath. She didn't want to be here.

(She _had _to be here.)

But she _needed_ to be here. Rapunzel didn't think her parents could handle her disappearance again and survive. She'd had eighteen years to be selfish and only think of herself. Now was the beginning of a new, selfless life. And while it could never be everything she wanted . . . it could be _something_. And you never really knew what potential could lead to until you tried, right?

She started to let her hand fall until her wrist was tugged back. Startled, for the first time in a long time, Rapunzel was forced to fully enter the present.

Her sleeve was caught in her previously unnoticed necklace.

(_Had she really been so out of it she hadn't even realize it was there?_)

She bulled her neck back to try to get a look at her predicament. Her wrist followed. She worried her lip subconsciously between her teeth. At a loss, she simply tugged, hoping the lace would simply tear. No one would notice a little nick in so many loops, right? She jerked, hard. The snap of her wrist coming free was satisfying.

The sound of pearls rolling down the stairs was not quite so comforting.

With a start, Rapunzel's hand flew to her neck to find a distinctly worrying bare collarbone. Eyes shot to the floor in alarm. Her heart pattered in time with the pearls as the bounced towards the crowd.

"Oh, _no_," she groaned. Nobody was there to hear the first words spoken without prompting from the princess in months. Still fewer were there to watch her _run_ down the stone slabs, shoes left behind, hunched to snag at whatever she could pick up. She didn't know when these little things had become so important to her. But everything here was like a gift, and she'd feel especially awful if she broke _and_ lost such an extravagant present. Not that she didn't _always_ feel 'crummy'; and the understatement of the year award went _to _. . .

Rapunzel hurried down the steps, well aware of the heat pooling around her neck. Cloaks were good for keeping you reasonably comfortable in the winter. They were not so good at ventilation. She'd only managed to grab a few white crystals and one pearl. The rest were still rolling and gaining speed, practically racing into the oncoming seasonal traffic. Not even winter could stifle the infectious energy of Corona's citizens. Letting her eyes roll to the sky (overcast in a white blanket of clouds, though it had yet to snow) she tugged her hood over her head and molded into the crowd, eyes trained on the floor. With one hand clenching the fabric of the hood over her mouth and hunching like an old woman, Rapunzel slowly picked her way among the people. A few people bumped into her and apologized. She nodded politely before ducking her head away, to further her search. She pocketed the gems in one fist, lacking any convenient pouch or pocket. Rapunzel started drifting again. The adrenaline fear provided was starting to creep off. Her hand was starting to fill. She'd left the chain up on the bench. Her mother would be back to find her missing. She had to—.

A startling cheer caught her attention and she turned away, her eyes catching on a bundle of people rapidly expanding to form a ring around several men. Each man had an instrument. With rosy cheeks and freshly filled caps, the surrounding citizens were treated to a show of lighthearted music. Several women were swung around by their husbands or sons or lovers. While it was nowhere near as dramatic, it was still just as familiar to the princess.

The pearls and jewels clattered to her feet, soundless among the general bustle of the people. They remained hidden beneath her dress and cloak and she could not bare to move, for fear of what would happen. Her breath caught in her throat. She forgot what it was like to breathe without exceptional effort. She closed her eyes to the sound of—

_Sweet music rolling through the air_—

—_bodies orbiting seamlessly_—

—_feet twirling across warm brick_—

Rapunzel gagged. Someone nearby asked her if she was alright. She waved them away with a hand—

—_outstretched towards her, invitingly_—

—_tempting, smoldering eyes_—

—_reaching towards him expectantly as_—

—Someone grabbed her elbow to steady her as she stumbled forward, on foot no longer centered anywhere to the ground—

—_tethered_—

—_fingers a breath away from_—

—torn _apart by_—

—a few bystanders were speaking to her now. She continued to dismiss them, sitting on the floor. People encouraged her to move. She was in the middle of a busy road. She couldn't—

—_save him_—

A strike of lightning startled her from her temporary lapse into memories. She choked a gasp as people stared upwards, frozen or slowing, no longer paying attention to her. She scooped the jewels into her hand and slipped seamlessly between people as mother's ushered children inside. By the mercy of some deity or another, the music had stopped and she was able to escape the aching pieces in her head once more, mostly unscathed. Her breath came in pants as she let the hood fall, drumming up the steps. _Still_ she remained unnoticed.

How _funny_.

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**T.B.C. . . .**

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_~wemakeitmorethanfiction_


	2. Chapter 2

_Warning: Understandable confusion concerning Rapunzel's name in this chapter. We never DID get to know if Gothel called Rapunzel by the name of the king and queen, or made it up herself. Which leaves the possibility that 'Rapunzel' isn't her 'real' name. Hence this name._

___Apologies if this feels like a slow start. I promise it's not ALWAYS going to be introspection and minor action. As the people in music may or may not like to say, the bass just hasn't dropped yet. :)_

___And so it continues._

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**Chapter 1**

**.Lucky.**

The town was small. It was smaller than he remembered. And along the way, they had even managed to become impossibly, indecently decorated. It had past garish several miles ago and was rounding on ridiculous. Sweepers had not yet risen in the night to clean up the glitter covering the sensible stone floors. It _wreaked_ of joy. Pitch's lip curled at a couple pressed against one another as he stalked by, their moans almost sinful in the childish surroundings. Banners waved at pedestrians in the gentle air drafts.

It was disgusting.

And it wasn't even slightly what it appeared to be.

Beneath all the energy was what he'd come here for. What he needed was here, oh and wasn't it just _blooming_! So much fear and anxiety just waiting to be harvested, fear for their children, a child's first taste of fear as their fragile minds finally began to understand the legends surrounding their quiet, shiny little hometown. Someone had been evil enough to kidnap a baby, had been quick and clever enough to do it inside the palace walls. Their humble homes were no patrolled estate. Would that person come back one day for their children? Would they one day have posters with their faces on it? Would they one day be an image lost to the world, a picture never continued, a novel never finished? Would they too one day cease to exist?

Oh and wasn't this just _perfect_.

Pitch found himself tracing lines along the walls. Sand oozed from the walls and curled around his wrists, around his head, following invisible currents in the air. It wasn't much, not even half of what he'd been but a month ago. It had taken some time to get here, more than he'd like to admit, but this was _worth it_. This- This fear- it was everything! It was everything he could've asked for! Oh, no, not really, not _everything_, but it was so much more than what he'd had in what felt like _ages_ already and-.

His nostrils flared, the scent tracing his tongue and curling around nerves he didn't know existed. His whole body vibrated, muscles clenching as the smell turned towards a rather bold and familiar centerpiece.

"Oh, my dear Queen," he murmured, slowly stepping down the walkway and towards the less-than-subtle castle. "How I have missed you . . ."

He dissolved into the air, shooting around poles holding banners, drinking up the last remnants of any dream that had taken a natural turn for the worst. Even still it was only by sheer willpower that Pitch managed to make his way towards the castle. But his driving remained erratic, sending him veering continuously off-course and running into the various decorations. There seemed to be quite a lot out. An enormous, definitely new mural etched into the floor had caught his attention long enough for a streamer to catch his leg.

With a cry of surprise, Pitch partially materialized, taking a gut-strangling dive towards the floor before righting himself.

The result was a less-than-stellar landing.

He rolled until his head cracked against the wall and then lurched forward, ready to hurl. He hacked and spit once, glittering plastic suns falling to the floor instead of a technicolor burp. He huffed at his gracelessness. When he could stand to do so, he shook extra glitter from his hair and made his way to the foot of the Queen's bed.

"I've gone through much trouble to get here, Madame." He purred, leaning over her form as he sat down beside her. She snuffed once in her sleep. "You wouldn't believe the mess your people have made in town. It's atrocious. What _are_ they up to?"

His hand reached out to caress her face, and sand fell off her skin like snow before absorbing into his palm. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, drinking it in like water. He stayed his hand, pouring over the delightfully dark images. The emotionally absent mother was a fountain of energy for him. If the commute wasn't so lengthy and hazardous, he ventured he might have come more often. The woman's soft features fell into something along the lines of pain. She sniffed into the dark, a quiet sort of fear.

"Sssh, shh, don't fight it," he urged gently. "Tell me about your fear. Tell me what it is that plagues you tonight."

It was wonderful. Like taking a bath after years of being stuck in the mud. Why had he stopped seeking out natural nightmares?

"Yes, that's it," he purred as she whimpered again. "You fear you aren't a good mother, that you've failed your _precious_ baby girl. You're afraid you'll never see her again, is that it? How does it feel to know that you _weren't_ good enough? Tell me how the story of your heartache. Write me the lyrics of your sinful song."

Pitch's skin felt warm with the flush of fear, and he rolled his neck with delight, even shivering as he reached out to trace patterns on the sleeping King's hand. Together he rolled in their feelings, his mouth opening into a wide smirk, tongue rolling with unspoken ecstasy. So immersed he was in his own sultry feeding that the spike in peace came almost as a physical blow.

"Oh hello," he looked down to the Queen, the flood of black coming to an abrupt and wholly unwelcome trickle. "What is this?"

Brunette hair. The picture of a girl, maybe the queen in her youth, drawing in the sunlight. It left a thick film in his mouth; like drinking tasteless honey. It began to make his way down his throat, gagging him, until he finally regained his senses and jerked his hand away.

Too thick to be a conjuring. That was a memory. And as the same sickly odor began to consume the King as well, Pitch kept his hands to himself. He hissed at them and stood, backing into the wall. Something was wrong. Something terrible had happened; something terrible _was_ happening.

"This isn't-."

Someone screamed.

And he was drowning in infinity.

Images. Horrible, awful things. A woman's sharp, murderous expression accompanied by the sting of betrayal, enough to fill lifetimes. A man's face without personality, with pallor. His lips were blue and once-attractive features had been distorted into something limp and morbid. Everything felt cold. Everything felt sore as shadows of people who he _felt_ rather than saw slipped away from him. His heart screamed as he was left alone, isolated, surrounded by a warmth while his own chill kept potential friends at bay. He was alone. He had _always been alone_.

And Pitch Black had never felt so magnificently consumed.

When Pitch managed to blink the spots from his eyes, he was met with the sight of the queen shrugging on her robe and racing from the room. The king wasn't far behind. That sappy nonsense was gone completely, and with a feral grin, he sunk into the shadows and gave chase.

From chandelier to tracing the edge of a picture frame, rolling into the darkness created by torches. Guards lit lanterns one by one as their rulers raced down the hallway, each armored soldier scrambling to perform. It was havoc. It was _perfection_.

And all the while, the voice screamed. It screamed and shouted and sobbed until the door was slammed open, and other voices gave small shouts of surprise. The queen entered while the king shared quick words with his men, body subtly blocking the doorway.

Unholy glee intact, Pitch slipped into the room and materialized in an apparently unused plush chair. He situated himself elegantly to watch the scene being played out.

Maids were standing at attention, all of them looking strangely serene in spite of the situation. They were not fooling Pitch-he could _smell_ their wariness- but he had to admire the professionalism. They were even dressed and combed appropriately. The queen hardly seemed to noticed them as she brushed the huddle aside, collapsing into the circle of bodies, and murmured soothing words. The screaming melted into sobs that fooled no one into believing she had recovered. Pitch hissed in unadulterated excitement. His toes curled in ecstasy and he tilted his head back, allowing the nightmare to soothe the aches in his bones and buzz in his head.

"Eu-_EUGENE_!"

"Ssh," the queen interrupted. "Hush. It was just a dream, my love. You're safe here."

Pitch rolled his eyes and contemplated taking his leave now. This was all so dreadfully systematic. But he really _did_ want to get a good look at the infantile little monster shrieking so loudly. The maids continued to block his view, shuffling around, adjusting things he couldn't yet see.

Sobs did not properly describe the noises the child was making. The sounds that came out were strained, the result of a face contorted in emotional agony. It was the cries of trauma relived. The sound of a being gritting its teeth and squeezing its eyes shut, doing its absolute best to sink out of its body and die. It was trapped. It was hurt. It was _alone_. And it was so familiar to a man like Pitch that he leaned forwards in his seat, resting his wrists on his knees.

The king approached, and the maids parted and disappeared out the door.

Pitch's mouth cocked in a soundless, sadistic 'oh'.

"Not a child at all," he murmured to the air, cupping his chin thoughtfully. "My, my, sweet princess. What kept you so long?"

It wasn't difficult to figure out the identity of the strange, beautiful banshee. And she _was_ beautiful. For centuries Pitch had maintained the appearance of a man in his mid-twenties, while this girl was far more freshly bloomed. Her introduction to adulthood was recent. And she was the spitting image of her mother. _Beautiful indeed . . ._

"Lucy," the king murmured softly as he embraced both of his girls. "Its alright, Lucy. You're well now.

"Lu-Lu," her mother sighed, tucking her daughter under her chin. She slowly began rocking her into peace. "My sweet baby Lu-Lu."

Pitch rolled his eyes and pushed himself from the chair. The night was quickly turning difficult and dull. Things had changed for the better in this grand household and he suspected the effect would soon leach into the town. Before long the purifying effect of natural nightmares would turn toxic; fear would be replaced by naivety once more. He wasn't strong enough to create yet, only leach. The sand would return. But he'd have to be patient.

"I'll be seeing you all," he said cheerfully, stalking towards the cuddly little family. He tapped the Queen on her nose, ignoring the fact that the edge of his finger went through her skin completely. "You've still a song to sing me, your highness. And I do _hate_ unfinished business."

He peered at the whimpering girl who'd managed to subside into hyperactive pants. Her erratic breathing was the only thing keeping the room from falling into silence. Pitch leered at her, running a finger along her disheveled hair, licking his lips at the sight of cold sweat moistening her flawless skin. She looked rather sickly for a princess.

"Beggars can't be choosers, but I'd have thought royalty might be the exception," he leaned his knees onto the bed, hovering close to her face as she rubbed her knuckles over her tear stains. "You're awfully late to the party, aren't you, princess? What was it that kept you?"

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. If it felt just a little too warm, well, he hadn't been exaggerating her sickly appearance. It seemed even the offspring of kings wasn't immune to the crippling effect of depression. Sand leftover from the residual fear kissed everywhere his skin made contact, and greedily, he let his palms cup either side of her face carefully. No need to ruin the illusion by passing through her face.

"Who is it that plagues your soul, dear girl?" And he leaned closer, to the point he was breathing on her skin. His jaw opened, breathing a cool huff of air over her skin, tongue locking behind teeth before hissing, "_Tell. Me._"

She shivered, and Pitch could've sworn for an instant she met him in the eye. His face went slack as green eyes trailed the patterns of his cheekbones, his eyes. But immediately after he became infected by the delusion she closed her eyes, buried her face in her mother's side, and sighed. Her face was flushed from her tears, and her father ran a soothing hand over her aching forehead. The three laid together, the younger spooned into her mother's side as the elder woman ran her thumbs along her baby's cheekbones, whispering sweet nonsense. The girl continued to breathe as though she'd forgotten for a while, and was just remembering what it felt like as her father ran a palm over her back.

It was, in all, sickly.

Pitch shook his head of his thoughts and disgust, brushing off his cloak with the side of his palms. He felt filthy, and his tongue still felt a little swollen in his mouth. He curled it once, pressing the front flat against his teeth and sucking. It made a loud squeaky sound.

The girl bolted upright and stared.

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Pitch could've _sworn_.

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He would've bet his life that she did.

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She _couldn't_.

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She had to _see him_.

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**_She was looking right at him!_**

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"What is it, honey?"

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"Are you alright?"

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"Did you see something, Lucy?"

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"Lucy?"

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"No. I didn't."

* * *

A flower.

That_ damned_ flower.

Rapunzel wished with all her heart that it had never come to her mother. She wished she'd died. She wished that this had never happened She wished . . . she wished a lot of things.

Lucky.

Their world- her _inheritance_- didn't know the meaning of the word.

Luck was fortune. Luck meant never having to work for what you desired. Luck meant the world falling into place, in alphabetical order and neat little rows, shuffled into little gilded boxes that could be plucked up at her convenience. This life . . . she was not. Lucky. She was hardly anything as of late. And everyone who said otherwise was a fool and _wrong_. They were so. Very. _Wrong_.

_So why am I the only one who can see that?_

Rapunzel- _Lucy _stared at the world that was supposed to belong to her, would one day marinate under her rule, and feared. She was truly and honestly afraid. Fear was no new thing to her, no, not at all. Gothel had raised her on fear. Her safe, naive little life that seemed to be ages ago now had thrived on that singular, paralyzing emotion. Even now as Rapunzel watched the world pass her by, she knew that if she tried, even if she _dared_, she wouldn't be able to move. Her life was a picture, and she was hardly the focal point. It wasn't fair, but it was true, and that's what nearly scared her the most. Nearly being the key word, as up until last night, she had been utterly convinced her worst fear was inheriting the kingdom she was not fit to rule. Up until last night, she'd only been haunted by her past in her dreams.

Up until last night, she hadn't stared Death's leer in the face.

Gray skin and golden eyes seemed indented into the glass window, and, affronted, she turned away. But unnaturally handsome features twisted into a leer peered out at her from the swirling patterns on her floor and Rapunzel found she was breathing just a little too heavily.

She wished she hadn't opened her eyes. She wished that Death wasn't hovering around her, waiting to steal another loved one from her. The former blonde would be a liar if she claimed to have seen Its wicked face before the abrupt demises of her two loved ones, but much had changed since then. In the same way she wondered why It would reveal itself, she questioned why it _wouldn't_. Who better to flaunt your great power in front of then a princess who already bore the scars from dearly departed loved ones. Why _not_ Rapunzel? Why _not_ taunt her just a little bit more? Why _not_ take one more thing from her microscopic collection of loved ones?

"I can do this," she hissed to herself. "I. Am not. Afraid."

She beat witches and death. She survived. Like her mother said, she was still here and she was safe. She was better than a phantom image. She was better. She could be _better_. She could _do._ _Better_. So maybe she hadn't showed it lately, and maybe her own actions had proved herself wrong. But in a rare moment of clarity, Rapunzel fisted her hands and stared down the etchings in the floor until they disappeared into nothing more than random, natural features of wood. And when that was done and she could pick out no fanged faces or gilded eyes, she stared down the window and found the image there too had disappeared. Her eyes rolled to the ceiling, the light of the moon not reaching far enough to illuminate the half-hearted, hand-drawn outlines of paintings she'd never begun.

A light breeze tickled her neck. Rapunzel's muscles seized of their own accord.

_Better_, she reminded herself. _I can be _better_._

"I know you're there," she told the darkness, eyes darting around the room. "And I am _not_ afraid of you."

Her skin warmed as the breeze faded. Rapunzel exhaled and ran her hand along the goosebumps of her neck. She was talking to floorboards and the moon. Awesome. If she didn't know better . . .

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. . . _from the corner of one shockingly green eye . . ._

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. . . a small shift of darkness, hardly important, barely noticeable . . .

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A bony hand slid to the back of her neck, and Rapunzel moved no more.

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"Are you sure?"

And she screamed.

* * *

Sorry for the ridiculously late update!


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